


Sand

by Hex



Category: Badass Women in History RPF
Genre: History, Medieval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hex/pseuds/Hex





	Sand

We were holding hands. I could see it clearly, but nothing could be felt. No warmth of skin, no beating of the pulse, nor could I move my hand out of that cold clench. It was only then that I realized we were both covered in stone. Those were our faces (I recognized his worried features), but our flesh could not be seen inside those frozen mirror images. Something, a whisper or a shout, revealed the horrifying truth. Those were our effigies, and we were inside, alive, but oblivious. With that revelation came pain, as if someone was removing my bones from outside the tomb. Rib by rib I was disappearing, slowly waking up in an empty chamber.

It was one of those dreams from which you try to wake up using that seemingly nonexistent conscious part of your mind, only to gasp for air as if emerging from deep, dark waters. It was quiet so I realized the hours must be small. I sneaked out of the room, past my snoring maid, God bless her, and followed the voices down the corridors. I needed company to erase dark thoughts that the dream had given me. I could hear my husbands laughter. I almost started running toward the door when laughing, abruptly, stopped. Not just laughing, but any speech or movement, clinking of goblets and screeching of furniture. I thought I heard heavy breathing, but that could have been my, already roused, nerves. 

Suddenly, the idea of drowning and loosing bones to time seemed less frightening. I, once again, passed my maid and sat on the bed. There was nothing to be done except going back to sleep. I clasped my hands across my stomach and prayed. I prayed every morning like this, imagining a drop of blood coming to life inside of me. One day, and soon, I think, people will no longer be fooled by pardons, bread and sympathy. They will demand stability, hope for their children's future. 

I grew to love this moist soil, this scarred Kingdom, this England upon whose shores I was so heartlessly abandoned, and I hated all those dreams and premonitions of it's decay I kept having. I felt I could stop it, if only... If only my body was not... the mere though of it made me sick. I hate my breasts, my voice and my lips. "Nothing can grow out of hatred", my father used to say, but where is he now?

I heard footsteps approach. Swiftly, I dried my tears and got back to bed. I could feel him lay beside me, not noticing my cold feet. Smell of wine filled the air as he took me by the hand. I took a deep breath and let myself hit the water, welcoming it's quiet depths.


End file.
